We continued our march southward, dismantling the remaining operational exosuits and reducing to scrap the occasional robot that dared resist. At last, we encountered our first human presence in this desolate place, though calling it "contact" would be exceedingly generous. They had no intention of parley. They charged the moment they spotted us, firing makeshift firearms or swinging whatever blunt instruments they could wield.
They posed no real threat. Their calibers could not even scratch the most basic power armor worn by my legionaries, much less the superior armors donned by my supermutants. When they attempted a melee assault, the response was immediate. One of my Horrigan colossi met them head-on. The first fell with a single punch, his skull severed cleanly from his body in a brief, grotesque arc of blood. Another was kicked bodily through the air, colliding with a rusted wall several meters away. A third barely had time to raise his improvised spear before a massive hand closed around his head. A swift jerk tore the head—and much more—away.
The spinal cord emerged intact, trailing fluids that bore little resemblance to blood. I paused to observe it.
A spinal cord? It did not seem natural.
"Give me your machete," I ordered a centurion, who passed it to me wordlessly.
I knelt beside one of the corpses and calmly began to open it, ignoring the tense glances of my men. Many of the internal organs had been replaced with mechanical prosthetics. Their brains were absent—more accurately, removed entirely. Empty cavities filled with wiring and synthetic components occupied the space where grey matter should have been. The more I examined, the clearer it became: missing organs, missing bones.
"Unfortunate... Very well. Shoot to kill. I doubt even the most gifted frumentarii could extract anything useful from these remains," I said, returning the machete to the centurion, who swiftly cleaned and sheathed it.
We wasted no more time.
We continued advancing, this time under strict orders: shoot to kill anything that moved within our sector. There would be no truce, no negotiation. Only mindless automatons, simple patterns of intruder elimination, beasts without thought, or the remnants of forgotten projects.
Eventually, we reached another structure, this one significantly more intact. It appeared to be a communications center.
As we approached, loudspeakers blared to life with a shrill, artificial voice:
"Ah, trying to steal the X-2 Transmitter Array Antenna, are you? You won't succeed, not if my lethal Robo-Scorpions have any say in the matter."
The echo of the threat had barely faded when dozens of robotic scorpions emerged from every direction—collapsed corridors, cracks in the walls, concealed hatches in the ground.
"Ambush! Find cover and return fire!" I commanded, diving behind the nearest rock as my cohort did the same.
Fortunately, the first wave of laser fire from the Robo-Scorpions targeted the largest heat signatures detected: my supermutants.
Lasers impacted their heavy power armor, leaving blackened marks but accomplishing little more than surface charring.
The legionaries equipped with power armor and grenade launchers were the first to unleash sustained fire, detonating the robotic scorpions across the field. Explosions lit the area while the enemies, caught in open ground, were reduced to burning wreckage. Observing that the majority of enemy fire was not directed at them, the remaining legionaries swiftly engaged, dismantling wave after wave of robots with practiced efficiency.
Explosions echoed one after another. The scorpions surrounding us were annihilated before they could close the distance. Within minutes, we had eliminated the last of them, leaving only smoldering debris scattered across the battlefield.
Although victorious, one fact was immediately clear: someone had been watching us the entire time.
I turned my gaze northward, toward the largest building in the entire complex.
Our observer undoubtedly awaited us there.
The same entity that had monitored our every move since we entered this crater.
However, prudence dictated that we refrain from charging blindly. The area remained infested with scattered enemies. Only those zones we had cleansed could be deemed relatively secure. Dividing our forces would hasten the search but risk unnecessary casualties. Each legionary under my command represented a monumental investment of denarii, years of selection, training, and genetic enhancement. I would not squander such resources for mere expediency.
Thus, we continued encircling the complex in a methodical sweep.
While advancing, one of my legionaries found a holotape—apparently once belonging to the traitor Ulysses.
In another facility, we stumbled upon something I had not anticipated.
A place featuring several pre-war American-style houses, constructed of wood, resembling a replica of a suburban neighborhood. There was little else of note. Nor could we uncover much information regarding the site's original purpose. It was clear, by the accumulated dust and grime, that someone had once lived here—long ago.
"Deathclaw!" a legionary shouted suddenly.
Weapons rose immediately, but when we looked down, we saw a diminutive deathclaw scrambling away in panic, diving into a nearby doghouse for refuge.
A deep laugh escaped my chest, breaking the tension, and soon my cohort joined me in laughter at the absurdity of the scene.
"Retrieve it," I ordered, gesturing toward the doghouse.
One of the supermutants lumbered forward, tore the small structure apart with a single pull, and seized the tiny creature in one hand.
The deathclaw reacted immediately, slashing furiously at the supermutant's armor. To my surprise, it managed to leave faint but visible cuts in the plating—albeit with considerable difficulty.
When they brought it closer, I was able to examine it properly.It bore all the features of an alpha male deathclaw: powerful claws, compact musculature, an aggressive glare. Yet someone, at some point, had tampered with its genetics to make it smaller—though not substantially less dangerous.Considering I commanded supermutants capable of slaying fully grown deathclaws with a single blow, this little beast was not much more than a particularly homicidal chihuahua.
"Take it to the vertibird... it shall serve as a fine souvenir from this expedition," I ordered the mutant, who obeyed without hesitation.
Finding little of value or information in that replica neighborhood, we resumed our march eastward, following the contours of the terrain.Eventually, we arrived at Facility Y-17, where those damned exosuits—previously encountered scattered across the crater—originated.
Upon clearing the area, I understood why they had remained active.Their original purpose was not military. These suits had been designed for rescue operations: they would automatically activate upon detecting a person in danger, wrapping around them and providing protection.
The flaw was simple and lethal: the system could not distinguish between genuine peril and normal circumstances. Worse still, once sealed, the suit would not release its occupant if its programming determined they were "still at risk."For those poor souls, their armor became iron coffins, imprisoning them until death by starvation or suffocation, their skeletal remains entombed within the rusting machinery.
The facility's terminals offered little technical detail of real interest.Mostly, they contained data regarding the hundreds or perhaps thousands of individuals who had been lobotomized here.
However, something caught my attention: the records indicated that these facilities had also been used for another purpose.
Paladin Royce of the Brotherhood of Steel had passed through here. I recalled the account he had once shared with me at Sierra Madre.
Selective removal of organs, brains, and certain bones—all meticulously designed to produce subjects who were stronger, more obedient, and easier to control.
I also found another implant, though I did not fully understand it yet. It appeared to relate to improving accuracy against flying threats, adjusting the user's perception to more easily strike down airborne attackers before they could land a venomous sting. Hardly impressive, but nonetheless worth cataloging.Frankly, I had expected more from a medical research facility.
We had covered a significant portion of the complex by then, but work remained.The ideal course of action was to finish clearing all secondary buildings surrounding the main structure before launching a major assault.
The true prize—technical data, research secrets—lay within the principal facility.
The installations Z-9 and X-8, both nearby, revealed why the crater was so thoroughly infested with nightstalkers.
A certain Dr. Borous—a degenerate without question—had created them.It had not been a spontaneous mutation caused by radiation, as we had believed.No, this fool had played god, merging coyote and snake DNA to manufacture those abominations, and worse yet, had lost control of his creations. They escaped into the wasteland, and now infest it as a plague.
He even implanted the brain of his dog into an experimental minigun—the K9000—according to the notes, the brain could still smell and perceive sensations.We encountered examples of his genetic modifications, including efforts to make nightstalkers fertile and capable of reproducing independently without human interference.
None of this interested me particularly.
Except for one implant capable of purifying radiation from liquids.Although, truthfully, if one must resort to drinking irradiated fluids, it likely signifies far greater errors in judgment beforehand.
I found myself growing increasingly irritated. We had explored more than half of this facility, and though we had uncovered considerable research, much of it was riddled with foolishness—failed experiments, misguided projects, or ideas so devoid of military value that one wonders how these so-called scientists had ever secured funding.
What possible use was there in merging a coyote with a snake? Or in designing a weapon controlled by a dog's brain?
Were these wretches alive, I would gladly tear out their eyes and force them to swallow them for the waste they had made of such magnificent resources.
As we continued our advance, a massive swarm of cazadors appeared, flying near one of the secondary installations.
The battle began almost instantly.
In a single synchronized volley, the plasma rifles and antimaterial weapons of nearly five hundred legionaries roared together, sweeping hundreds of the creatures from the skies.
Yet they continued to come.The swarm was so vast that we resorted to firing fragmentation grenades into the mass, shredding more of the airborne predators with fire and steel.
Despite the overwhelming firepower deployed, they still rained down upon us.Their poisonous stingers struck our power armor like a steel hailstorm, bouncing harmlessly off the hardened plating.
We could hear the futile impact of their barbs as we advanced methodically, step by step, eliminating everything that flew overhead.
We bathed the sky in fire, and we did not stop until the field between us and our objective lay strewn with the charred, smoking remains of cazadors.
Upon entering and investigating the facility's database, the origin of the infestation was immediately confirmed.
Predictably, it had been manufactured here.This installation was responsible for the creation of the cazadors—yet another poisoned gift now plaguing the wasteland.
A tremendous waste of resources.